The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1)

by Eric Dabbs

  Diego latched onto the driver's side door frame as the truck thundered down the gravel road. He grabbed a hold of Alex's shirt, while holding onto the vehicle with the other hand.

  Alex gripped the wheel and pummeled Diego's nose with his other fist. Three solid licks, and the security chief lost his grip on the truck and hit the gravel road, tumbling to a stop in the reflection of the side mirror.

  In defeat, Diego struggled to his knees.

  The F-150 glided down the steep hill toward the dock. Alex floored the gas pedal, sending a pair of guards at the water's edge diving for safety. The tires slung loose gravel in the air as the truck gained more speed, headed straight for the wooden pier. The wheels rumbled over the dock boards, shot into nothing but air...and then crashed with a booming splash into the Mediterranean Sea.

  Before the cab sank below the surface, Alex climbed out through the open window and swam away.

  Coraco had a plan of escape, but Alex had a plan too.

  He could only hope Samantha would be okay until he had a chance to get back to her—because he had no choice—he had to put an end to Coraco's devious plot of nuclear annihilation.

  29

  Alex killed the headlights of the Porsche 911 before coming within view of Coraco's front gate. The tires ground over loose gravel as he pulled the car to the side of the road and put the gear shifter into neutral. The turbo engine hummed at the bottom of the hill, hopefully out of earshot of the guard shack. With street lamps shining on each side of the wrought iron entry, several large trees cast a well concealing shadow over the vehicle.

  He pushed aside his desire to go looking for Samantha; he had to derail Coraco's plans first. From what he'd overheard, she was being held somewhere on Coraco's estate, probably under the watchful eye of Carlos Diego. She'd have to take care of herself until he could get back to her, or find a way to escape on her own.

  His strategy was simple...wait for Coraco to make his move...after that Alex would make his. He knew his chances weren't good, but he was the only one in position to bring down the real estate tycoon, and he was determined to do just that, one way or another. He gripped the wheel tighter with each passing second. Then, up ahead, a glimmer caught his attention, a silver Humvee.

  Coraco's convoy exited the front gate and turned right onto the two-lane road, a candy apple red BMW Roadster trailing the Hummer. Behind the Beamer, without a doubt, the transport truck, a white moving van. The van was trailed by another Hummer. This one was white. A black topless jeep with four guards brought up the rear. Alex assumed each vehicle was packing high firepower like the jeep. After the five vehicle convoy moved out of sight, he flipped on the headlights and tailed them from a distance.

  Maybe he could highjack the moving van before it unloaded its cargo? Or maybe at the airfield, he could figure out a way to get on the plane? He also had to contact Washington about the device, but that would have to wait until later.

  If Coraco owned the airfield, it must have been a last resort. Intelligence on Europe's wealthiest man revealed that he kept his business ventures clean, at least the ones that could be connected to him. As for the airfield, it was sure to have a compliment of well-trained security guards equipped to protect the aircraft of southern Spain's wealthy jet setters. However, cold hard cash had a way of convincing people to look the other way.

  He watched as the five-car procession turned right onto the artery leading to the private airstrip. The facility consisted of a two-story air traffic control building, three large hangars, and the runway itself. A sign posted at the entrance confirmed Alex's suspicions of its ownership. It declared, in Spanish, the official name to be MARBELLA AIRFIELD. But under the title was a list of board members. Coraco's name was at the top of the list.

  Alex shook his head.

  The vehicles stopped at the air traffic control building. Several men exited the lead Hummer and entered the brick structure. Alex couldn't determine if Coraco was one of them. It didn't matter though, the tycoon was certain to be among the convoy. To conceal his presence, Alex accelerated past the property and rounded a curve that sloped down the mountainside and bent around a wooded area.

  He pulled the car off the road, finding a snug hiding spot behind some brush and trees. After removing his gun from its holster, he gave it a hasty inspection and returned the weapon to its place. Glock handguns were extremely dependable. They could survive almost anything and still fire, even being submerged in water. Satisfied the gun had endured his dip in the Mediterranean, he got out of the car and started the hike to the airfield.

  30

  The perimeter was surrounded by a ten-foot tall chain-link fence, topped off with three strands of barbed wire. In addition, a crew of guards patrolled the area. One of the men passed by moments before Alex approached the fence.

  An air hangar stood in the path ahead of him. The building set parallel with the runway, along with another hangar. The third of which faced opposite the other two at the end of the property. Alex snipped the chain-links and passed through the fence. To cover his tracks, he pushed the fresh cut section back into place, the metal wires snagging each other, concealing the fact the fence had been compromised.

  He darted for the backside of the hangar, his combat boots stomping through the wet grass. The building cast a large shadow with help from the street lights in the front. Alex halted at the rear and peeked around the corner in time to see Coraco's convoy come to a stop. Men filed out of the vehicles.

  There was Alfred Coraco.

  He got out of the silver Hummer and paused to converse with one of the airfield's security officers. Coraco shook the man's hand and patted him on the shoulder. He ended their conversation with a smug grin. Afterward, the guard motioned to his men and barked orders in Spanish. They climbed into a gray jeep and sped away.

  Once all of Coraco's men were inside the hangar, Alex moved down the side of the building, within the shadows. He stopped mid-way, near a side entrance, and cracked open the door. In the center of the hangar was a cargo plane. The plane's rear ramp started to lower to the concrete as the moving van backed into position. Several men with AK-47's ringed the aircraft with Coraco in their midst while two other men signaled the driver to stop. The men yanked out the van's unloading ramp and dropped it to the floor with a clang. Immediately, Alex recognized one of the men from the profiles Washington e-mailed him. It was Kasim Abdul Raziz's younger brother, Hakem al Mushaf Raziz.

  In a pair of desert cargo pants and a white t-shirt, Raziz loitered near the back of the van, running his fingers through a well-trimmed goatee.

  With a knee on the grass, Alex peeked through the hangar door as several men entered the back of the van and pushed a heavy-duty cart out of the rear door. A tarp covered a cigar shaped object about five feet long, but Alex knew what they were hiding as the men wheeled the cart up the ramp of the cargo plane. At the moment, there were too many of them to do anything. He figured his chances would be better if he could somehow get on the aircraft during takeoff. Likely, the billionaire would only bring a handful of guards with him.

  After everyone boarded via the ramp with the payload secure, the lift raised and closed with a burst of air, indicating a tight seal. As Alex closed the door and backed away, cold steel pressed into the base of his neck.

  "Hands in the air," a harsh voice said.

  "Take it easy. No need to do anything outlandish."

  "Stand up...slowly, please."

  Alex rose with his hands held above his head. The gun barrel slid from his neck to the middle of his back.

  "What are you doing here?" the man asked.

  "English all the way, huh?" Alex craned his neck to get a look at the guard and his grizzly beard.

  "You look like the American agent." He jabbed the barrel deeper into Alex's back. "I'll ask you one more time. What are you doing here?"

  "I think you know the answer."

  In the same breath, Alex spun, smooth and flawless. His right hand latched onto the
man's wrist and shoved the barrel away from his body. In fluid motion, his left hand smashed into the guard's elbow, hyperextending the joint and shattering the bone. The man's pistol fell to the grass, his face twisting into a grimace. Alex hammered his nose with a quick strike, followed it up with a left hook, and watched his adversary wobble and then collapse to the ground.

  "I don't like a gun pointed at me." Alex narrowed his eyes at the prostrate form of the guard, writhing and moaning on the grass. He ejected the magazine of the man's pistol and flung the weapon as far as he could throw it. It landed with a thud in the distance.

  The cargo plane seized his attention, rolling toward the runway.

  Alex bolted across the asphalt to the back corner of the air-traffic control building. The plane made a right turn onto the tarmac and began to accelerate. With no guards in sight, he took off in a sprint, his eyes honed in on the aircraft's rear landing gear. He hoped he could gain access through the wheel hub. If there was a panel leading into the shell of the cargo plane, he'd be in.

  The lumbering bird picked up steam as Alex closed in, garnering speed in an all-out run. Seconds later, he drew side by side with the rear wheel. He grabbed the gear frame and pulled himself up. His sweaty hands clutched the upper section while his feet rested on a tiny plate above the wheel. Nearing takeoff, wind whipped his hair about, the runway stripes zipping by.

  Using a free hand, Alex pushed up against the inside of the wheel hub. When he did, his foot slipped, and he dropped, groaning in desperation as his shoe skidded along the asphalt. He grunted, his body stretched out, straining to regain his hold on the upper portion of the landing gear.

  His fingers, slick with perspiration, lost grip, and his face plummeted toward the rotating wheel. His face narrowly missed the buzzing tire treads, and he smacked the tarmac with a harsh thump, his body tumbling along the asphalt before losing momentum and coming to a stop.

  He gasped for air, each breath radiating with a sharp pain in his right side. But far worse, the unbearable weight of failure pressed down on him as he watched the cargo plane rise from the runway, shrinking in size until it finally disappeared into the night.

  31

  Alex stood in the open doorway of the rental house, clutching his rib cage, his bewildered gaze combing over the remnants of what used to be a safe house. The front door was kicked in, wood splinters all over the living room floor, illuminated by the porch light. The living area was dark, but the kitchen light was on, as well as both bedroom lights. He took a tentative step inside and flicked the ceiling fan switch on the wall. It didn't produce the desired result, so he lumbered to the center of the room and pulled the fan chain. Pain rippled through his ribs as his arm stretched upward, but the lights came on. Some of Coraco's men were responsible for this, no doubt. He wasn't sure how they found the safe house, but it didn't matter now.

  The kitchen was pretty bad too. Silverware laid...scattered all over the tile floor, but what disturbed him the most was the sight of his crumpled laptop computer, smashed and shattered on the kitchen table. Guess he wouldn't be contacting Washington the usual way. He sighed and left the kitchen for the master suite.

  Not surprisingly, the bedroom had been dismantled, his clothes strewn on the floor. The mattress and box spring had been flipped upside down and the bathroom drawers jerked out, contents all over the place.

  Alex pulled his cell phone from a pocket and selected Wes's number. He explained the situation. He told Wes he'd need to conduct a rescue operation and that he needed extra fire power. "Heavy fire power," he elaborated. He also informed him that his laptop was history. Wes said it would take until tomorrow to get a replacement since the communication program had to be installed on the backup. Wes seemed disturbed to hear that Coraco's men found the safe house. He would be over soon, and in the meantime, Alex needed to shed his damp fatigues which clung to his skin, rubbing him the wrong way.

  After changing clothes, outside, he opened the car door and fell into the seat.

  "So what do you got, Alex?" Washington peered at him through the Porsche's video screen. The project leader's voice had a snippy tone, like he already suspected that Alex fumbled the ball, so to speak.

  "Coraco got away."

  "He what?"

  "He got away on a cargo plane bound for God-knows-where." Alex blew out a disgusting gush of air. "You won't like what I'm about to tell you, Chief." He began his latest debriefing with one leg hanging out of the driver's side door.

  "Let's hear it," Washington said. His face sagged after what was probably already a stressful day. But Alex felt certain what he was about to hear would beat anything thus far.

  "I got a chance to see what Alfred Coraco was hiding in his warehouse. Turns out he's got a secret laboratory.”

  Washington's eyes drilled holes into Alex, his chin as hard as granite. "Go ahead. I'm sure there's more."

  Alex didn't know how to say it, but just came out with it and let it rip. "He's got a nuke. He's planning more than a vacation getaway."

  "Dear God." Washington reeled off a few choice four-letter words. "And now he's MIA."

  "Affirmative. I did all I could."

  Washington strung together another nice list of profanities.

  "Somehow," Alex winced, not from the pain in his side, but from Washington's fowl mouth, "he managed to get his hands on some weapons grade plutonium."

  "The Russians."

  "That's what I suspect. The scary thing is...it’s well shielded. It didn't set off any sensors in the lab. Tucked away inside the bomb itself, it would probably go undetected at any of our ports. But there's more bad news."

  Washington remained silent, waiting...

  "The design of the bomb looks familiar to one of our own, except the timer, that part seemed to be Coraco's creation seeing they don't have a missile to strap the thing to."

  "So, we're about to get nuked by one of our own A-bombs?"

  "In a roundabout way...yes."

  "Any further leads?"

  "One or two...I'm flying to London tomorrow to have a chat with MI5. We have some video on two of Coraco's British friends. It's all we have to go on at the moment."

  "I'm aware of the video footage and your next move. Wes clued me in. Let me know if anything else turns up."

  "Will do."

  Washington paused as if contemplating something grave. He started to speak, but for the first time since Alex met him, the Chief was at a loss for words and could only stare at him with vacant eyes.

  32

  The dry fatigues made Alex feel a hundred times better, but the sharp pain in his ribs still lingered. After throwing one of the cushions back on the couch that had been slung across the room, he sank back into its comfortable confines and propped his feet up on the edge of the overturned coffee table. While he waited for Wes to arrive, he contemplated his next move. The stakes were high. One wrong move and Samantha could die. Or worse, he could get them both killed.

  Besides the two of them, his failure earlier haunted his thoughts. How did he let the bomb slip through his fingers, literally? He went back to the moment when the cylinder containing the plutonium slipped from his grasp as the alarm sounded. At the time, a vision of armed guards flooding the lab distracted his attention. That was his golden opportunity to at least slow down Coraco's plan of terror.

  An opportunity missed. He wouldn't make that mistake twice. He pulled out the Glock 21 and aimed it at the far wall, the laser sight beaming against the sheet rock.

  "Easy with that thing," Wes said as he stepped through the open doorway, carrying a large black case in one hand, and a smaller stainless steel case in the other.

  Alex glared at the interruption, a smoldering stare as he returned the pistol to its holster.

  "I have a pair of items that will make your infiltration a bit easier." Wes crossed over to the toppled coffee table. He set the cases on the floor. He smirked, amusement lining his face as he bent over and flipped the piece of furniture back onto i
ts legs, prompting Alex to remove his feet.

  Alex narrowed his eyes, exhaled irritably, not wishing to reveal the pain in his side.

  "I'm sure that you're familiar with the first weapon." Wes's voice had a hint of sarcasm as he placed the large black case on the table top and popped the latches.

  The sound stirred Alex's interest. He leaned forward.

  "A high powered assault rifle...an M4 Carbine."

  "I used one as a SEAL."

  "Then you know it comes with a collapsible stock." Wes extended the end of the rifle with a click. "Fully played out, you can achieve better aim from a distance, or in the collapsed position, you can gain increased maneuverability for close quarters combat." Wes passed the weapon to Alex, who accepted the M4 with open arms. A shortened version of the M16, the thirty round magazine delivered plenty of action before reloading became necessary.

  "Next." Wes cracked open the stainless steel case.

  "Could you hurry up? Sam is waiting..."

  "I get your concern. Samantha—”

  "So now you admit she works for you?"

  "I'm not admitting anything."

  "Why was she there to begin with?"

  "As a decoy."

  "Wilson or Reed could have done that."

  "Samantha is more resourceful than you think."

  Alex sighed. "She must have touched the thumbprint scanner. Surely, she knew the alarm would go off."

  "I don't know what she tried to do. Since she knew you were already inside, maybe she thought the door might be unlocked or the alarm system deactivated? I don't know, but she made a mistake...and she paid for it...dearly."

  "Finish up your presentation. I have to go."

  Wes nodded solemnly. He removed three small objects from the container. "I'm afraid there's not much left to say. These are fragment grenades. Use them sparingly...and with caution."